Tail Lights
by Sisiphus
Summary: Her thigh is still tingling from where his fingers had briefly brushed it. She knows it shouldn’t, but it’s there the sweep of it over and over again. [Lit, post 6x18, oneshot]


**Summary:**Her thigh is still tingling from where his fingers had briefly brushed it. She knows it shouldn't, but it's there; the sweep of it over and over again. Lit-ish, post 6x18, one-shot

**Author's Note: **Again, I mention the fact that I haven't seen the whole episode, only parts, so I therefore took some liberties about things I wasn't sure of. Facts? Actual events? Blah, who needs them.

The title is taken from another Death Cab For Cutie song, T_itle and Registration_, and the following is what happens when one spends too much time reading angst and listening to aforementioned band. Thank god I have no assessment at the moment.

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, you know the deal. Whatever.

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Her thigh is still tingling from where his fingers had briefly brushed it. She knows it shouldn't, but it's there; the sweep of it over and over again. 

_Yeah, everything's fixed._

His lips are (were, she reminds herself, past tense) soft and warm and familiar. They caused blooms of sense memory, all but forgotten, to rise to the surface of her mind. And for a moment she could smell daffodils and new winter snow and hair gel.

She's miles away now. Dozens and dozens. Scores. Driving on autopilot, she's been cruising for three miles before she notices the rain. It takes her that long to realise she's not crying.

_I don't deserve this._

He doesn't, she knows. Actually, she's not sure of that. Doesn't understand whether or not this makes up for his leaving the first… second… third… millionth, time. (The over exaggeration is slightly numbs the ache in her head).

Absently, she rubs the spot on her left thigh again, trying to subconsciously erase his touch. She can't.

It began washing over her at Sookie's wedding; a mad kiss, sudden and eager, lips and hands and flashes of tongue and the nip of teeth that makes her see sense.

It was being absorbed into her during windows made of minutes spent in the apartment above the diner, when his thumbs would work their way underneath her shirt and rub slowly against her hips and stomach. His little fingers brushed her ribs, and the skin on his jaw tasted of sweat and shaving cream and Jess. Her lips would go red from passion and the rough stubble on skin shaved by blunt blades.

It started staining her on an afternoon after school spent on her living room couch while her mother was working late. Shirts unbuttoned, lips and tongue lingering on curves above bra cups. Pleated skirts sliding over skin, rough fingertips and short uneven nails biting into the skin on thighs. Skilled but questioning fingers caused electric shocks to run through her body. Heat built in her stomach and two moaned names echoed; one whimpering and one reassuring. Heavy breathing and sighs. Slightly twitching, a hard heat pressed a metal zip into the curve of her hip. Lorelai would have killed them both had she known. Rory wasn't sure how to explain it.

She had to stand on her toes to kiss Dean. Standing in her childhood room he had seemed taller than she remembered from all those years ago. His hands were too cold, his hips didn't fit between her, and his hair got in her eyes while he was groaning into her neck. He didn't say her name, and the first (second, third…) time he made her come all she could hear were whispered confessions, secrets, about a giant city and a lost boy.

She once thought that she could never remove the insignias; the bruises and burns and patterns drawn on flesh and marks that sit just under her skin, that spell out his name all over her body. They are stuck there though; a riddle of scar tissue. She can only forget about it until a chance bumping of shoulders or guiding hand on her back. But this time, in Philadelphia, it's been hands and mouth and breath. She's got him printed all over her in vivid technicolour.

Logan isn't home when she reaches his apartment. It is his apartment, his home, not hers. Home would denote a place she enjoys being.

Stripping off in the bathroom to have a shower she sees her reflection in the mirror. Staring, she can swear that his fingerprints from today, months ago, _years_ ago are still detectable; there is a love bite he gave her, just below her collarbone that one winter, clearly visible. It's still there after she has used all the hot water and scrubbed away as many layers of skin as she can reach. She considers that she may be stained right the way through.

Sopping wet and wrapped only in a towel. Her dripping hair soaks through expensive sheets and into the expensive mattress. A single drop of water runs on a diagonal from shin to calf. Shivering, she wishes it were the trail of a tongue belonging to a dark haired man with a smirk not reflected in his eyes.

Curling up as small as she can, she listens to the rain fall outside, hitting tree leaves and railings. Somewhere in the distance her cell phone rings again. She doesn't answer. She doesn't hear it. She swallows tears and Logan leaves 14 voice messages.


End file.
